


seeing with new eyes

by TechnicalTragedy



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Guilt, M/M, Mild Blood, Past Character Death, Past Relationship(s), Smoking, Unhealthy Relationships, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 09:05:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6000084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TechnicalTragedy/pseuds/TechnicalTragedy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Happiness is beneficial for the body, but it is grief that develops the powers of the mind."</p>
            </blockquote>





	seeing with new eyes

**Author's Note:**

> there are so many Proust quotes in this. title is from a Proust quote, summary is a Proust quote, most of the quotes in the fic are Proust quotes. you'll know them when you see them, i'm sure.
> 
> also this is weird because it's like a minutemen/railroad run that turns into an institute run but ends in a minutemen run? idk i just went with it.
> 
> enjoy my trash.

Wanderer takes a drag of his cigarette, letting the smoke fill his lungs and holding it in until it feels like burning before breathing it out into the frigid winter air. He hasn't smoked for a long, long while, not since he'd made himself quit when he found out Nora was pregnant with Shaun. It'd been lifetimes since then, both figuratively and literally.

 

Alexis had given him a sad look as she'd handed over the smokes, and he knew about her husband's own smoking and drinking problem, but in the moment Wanderer didn't really care. He hadn't thought he'd get to smoking them so soon after their purchase, but the shitty situation he's found himself in really seems to be bringing out the worst in him.

 

He could've mistaken it for a deer stand, at first, but then he'd remembered that, in the two hundred years he'd been asleep, deer had mostly died off. The second – and, arguably, most important – thing that's tipped him off was the Railsign. Wanderer knew of only one person who left Railsigns, and the sight of it had taken the breath from his lungs.

 

The chair had a perfect view of the Vault elevator, he'd noticed absently as he sat. Wanderer's been watched since he took his first steps into this new and tragic world. Maybe Deacon had been lying to him all along, when he said he didn't know who Wanderer was. Maybe they'd all been lying.

 

Wanderer takes another pull off the cig, simultaneously hating and craving more of the nicotine he'd fought so hard to rid himself of. He thought of Nora, suddenly, of her frozen body, entombed under hundreds of feet of earth in the Vault that had ruined their lives. He's always wanted to give her a proper burial, like he knew she had put in her will, but it felt wrong to move her, like if he touched her she'd shatter to pieces.

 

He's lonely, he realizes. He misses his wife, his son's death would forever be on his conscience, as would the deaths of so many others. Wanderer tried to be strong, tried to pretend he was unraveling, but he was alone in the fucking forest looking at his wife's tomb, so he figured it was okay to let himself be a little vulnerable.

 

The hot tears tracking through the grime on his skin almost escape his attention, but Wanderer is more perceptive than people give him credit for. He reaches up to wipe them away, and his knuckles push against the sunglasses on his face. He makes no move to catch them as they fall and land awkwardly on the ground. They're already cracked to hell and back, what's a little fall going to do? Wanderer stares down at them, and melancholy washes over him.

 

He's lonely. Even with Codsworth, Preston, Dogmeat, and all the others who'd taken up residence in Sanctuary Hills, Wanderer is achingly lonely, and it's his own goddamn fault.

 

He leaves the sunglasses there when he finally gets up, hours later. It feels fitting.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Sweat drips from his frame, his hands feel blistered, and his back is aching, but the job is finally done. He might've dug a little too deep, but Wanderer figures that, after the apocalypse, it doesn't quite matter if you bury them six feet under anymore.

 

The ride down into the Vault feels longer than it ever has before. Wanderer is fiddling with his Pip-Boy, glancing over the map and hesitating over the dot labeled 'Railroad HQ.' He hasn't been there in ages, has been avoiding the place like the plague. He wonders if-

 

The elevator grinds to a halt, the steel gate rising slowly to allow him entrance into the Vault. He makes his way through the facility, looking out over the cryo arrays with a pit in his chest. Finally, he comes to a halt in front of Nora. The pod is closed, helping to preserve her with a thick layer of frost, and Wanderer almost can't bear to open it, wondering if today is really the day for this.

 

He hits the button, and the door unseals with a hiss, creaking open and sending a wave of freezing air over Wanderer. He just stares for a long time, ashamed at the fact that he'd almost forgotten what his wife looked like, after so long. She's still wearing her ring, and Nate's hand go automatically to his own when he notices it. Even after all this time, he stills wears it, still bears the words ' _Forever yours, Nora_ ' on him like the promise they are. It's been more than sixty years since she was alive to uphold that oath. Still, he slides the ring from her frozen finger, and removes his as well, storing them both in a pocket of his old Vault suit.

 

Carefully, he takes Nora into his arms, sickened at the way she retains her shape, frozen through and through. He carries her through the Vault and up to the surface, keeping his mind carefully blank. Wanderer jumps down into the grave and sets Nora on the soft dirt, swallowing hard to keep the tears back. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out their identical rings and reading the inscriptions etched into each one.

 

' _Always, Nate_.' It hardly feels like his own name anymore, like it's some stranger whose name his dead wife bore for two hundred years. Wanderer places the rings in Nora's pocket, and his fingers brush something within it. He pulls out a photograph, and his breath hitches as he looks over it.

 

They look happy, in the park with the sun shining down on them. Shaun is asleep on Nate's chest, and Nate is asleep against a tree while Nora watches, a soft smile on her face. Wanderer has no idea who took the picture, but he slips it into his pocket and climbs out of the grave, wishing he'd made it just a little shallower.

 

He looks down on his wife one last time, then turns his brain off as he loses himself in the rhythm of refilling the hole.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

“General, I need- Come on, listen to me,” Preston is saying, but Wanderer is filling his pack, trying to figure out what all he needs for the trip. “Wanderer!”

 

Wanderer sighs, but turns to look at Preston. “What? Can't you see that I'm busy?”

 

Preston eyes him, calculating. “Why are you chasing ghosts?”

 

“I don't have time for this-” Wanderer starts to turn away, but Preston suddenly has a firm grip on his arm.

 

“Hey. Slow it down, Wanderer. You...” Preston trails off, ducks his head to meet Wanderer's eyes. His expression is full of pity, and Wanderer hates it, hates feeling like he's being looked down on. “Are you okay?”

 

The 'of course' is already on Wanderer's lips, but the look on Preston's face makes him swallow them down. This is _Preston_. His first friend in the Commonwealth, his best friend in Sanctuary. The guy's a puppy dog, he doesn't mean anything bad by this, he just wants to help. Wanderer sighs, running his free hand through his hair and grimacing at the greasy feel of it. Worst thing about the Commonwealth is definitely the fact that the only working showers are in Diamond City and Vault 81.

 

He shakes his head to bring himself back on task, but keeps his eyes turned away from Preston as he answers. “Do I look okay? Everything that's happened since I first came out of that stupid Vault has made me want to crawl right back into my cryo pod and sleep for another two hundred years.”

 

Preston frowns. “I know it's tough, but-”

 

“I'm not cut out for this!” Wanderer interrupts. “I was never meant to outlive everyone I've ever known. I had to _kill my own son_ , Preston, and I don't know if you understand how much it hurts to think about all the other people I've had to cut down to get to where I am.”

 

“It's okay to feel unprepared, Nate,” Preston says, and it's a shock that he even knows that name. Codsworth must've told him, the sneaky devil. “It's okay. If I were in your shoes, I know I wouldn't have made it past the first day. You're the strongest person I know, and it might feel like the end of the world right now, but you're still here, you're still alive, and obviously that counts for something. Think of all the people you've helped, through the Minutemen, with the Rail-”

 

“Don't,” Wanderer cuts him off quickly, even just thinking of that shadowy organization making him itch for a smoke. “The world did end, Preston, in case you forgot. I lived through it, I would know.” Preston doesn't deserve Wanderer's anger, but it's got nowhere to go except out. “If the settlers knew about the things I've done, if they knew that their 'General' isn't the person they think he is, none of the things I've done would mean _shit_. No matter who I save, I couldn't save the people who mattered most.”

 

Preston's gaze grows infinitely sadder, and Wanderer doesn't know when he started crying, but the tears are coming hot and painful, like each one is ripped out. Slowly, like he's dealing with a spooked animal, Preston puts his arms around Wanderer. It's been so long since he's been hugged that he almost doesn't know what to do, but his arms eventually wind their way around Preston. He buries his face in his friend's shoulder, hating that he's so weak, but it's such a relief to lean on someone else that Wanderer can't refuse it.

 

“It's okay to grieve, Nate,” Preston coos, rubbing gentle circles in his back. “It's okay to miss them. _All_ of them.”

 

Wanderer understands the implication and he squeezes his eyes shut against the onslaught of memories, of cold hands in his, playful ribbing, an easy smile, long talks by the campfire. Wanderer remembers his aim wavering, the fear permeating the air, pleas for mercy, and his single-minded determination. ' _You'll have to kill me, too_.' And his determination faltered for just long enough that a knife slipped through his defenses, leaving a twisted scar that would never heal completely.

 

“I'm sorry,” Wanderer says when he's regained his composure, feeling embarrassed for letting Preston get to him like that.

 

Preston shakes his head, smiling gently. “There's nothing to be sorry for, Wanderer. We're friends, and I'm here for you.”

 

Wanderer's gut churns. He tries to smile. “Thanks,” he says, and the word tastes like ash.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Wanderer's footsteps echo through the maze of tunnels, but he doesn't bother trying to quieten his arrival. Anyone still here will already know he's come to finish the job, so stealth is hardly an option at this point. His worn 10mm pistol – the same one he'd picked up back in the Vault when he'd first awoken – feels heavy in his hand, as if it, too, knows the weight of his sins.

 

The claustrophobic dark gives way to all-encompassing light, and Wanderer's hand tightens around the grip of his gun, knowing he's close. The lantern used to be a sign of home to him, but now the sight of it makes Wanderer want to turn tail and never come back. He presses on, because he's come too far to bail out now.

 

HQ looks exactly like it did the last time he was here. The shooting range is still set up, Tinker Tom's terminal is busted, the chalkboards still hold Railroad info – surely outdated by now – and the beds still line the hall leading to the escape tunnel. The corpses that had littered the floor were gone. Whatever survivors were left over must have cleaned up at some point.

 

Wanderer comes to the round table, the heart of HQ, the candles burned down to nothing but piles of wax and the map of the Commonwealth ripped to shreds. The only thing salvageable on the table is a note, and Wanderer takes it, already able to take a guess at what it might say.

 

' _Don't trust anyone._ '

 

And, despite everything, Nate smiles.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

The paper-wrapped parcel is inconspicuous, just a clumsy gift on a table, but his eyes zero onto it like it's all he can see. Carefully, trying to figure out if it's dangerous or not, he picks it up and settles down. Should he open it? Maybe this is a bad sign. Maybe he should get the hell over himself and open it. No one would go to this much trouble just to fuck up his day. Commonwealth denizens are much more straightforward than that.

 

He unwraps it with steady fingers, dutifully pulling at the yarn binding it until the knot comes loose and the package falls open. His eyes alight on the contents of the gift, and his hands start shaking. Almost in disbelief, he picks up the familiar sunglasses, now spider-webbed with cracks.

 

The writing catches his eyes, and he looks to see what was written on the wrapping paper.

 

' _We don't receive wisdom; we must discover it for ourselves after a journey that no one can take for us or spare us._ '

 

He frowns, wondering what in the hell that could mean.

 

“I made a mistake,” a voice says, and his head snaps up, surprise on his features.

 

Wanderer stares silently, waiting, then steps closer when no words are forthcoming.

 

“You killed a lot of good people. I don't think I can ever forgive you for what you did,” he says.

 

Wanderer nods, having expected that. “I don't want you to. I don't deserve that. I fucked up, and I know you can't forgive me, but I want you to know that that was the biggest mistake I've ever made.”

 

They have a short staring contest, but eventually one stands and approaches the other. “You're a piece of shit, Wanderer.”

 

Wanderer smiles. “Then I'll be Nate.” Nate, who didn't kill his own son. Nate, who didn't kill the majority of the Railroad because said son told him to. Nate, who, despite losing his wife and child, managed to find someone who he fit with just right.

 

He sticks out his hand, and Nate takes it. “Hi Nate,” he says, his uncovered eyes staring hard at Nate's own. “If it's okay with you, I think I'll stick with Deacon.”

 

Nate frowns like he's thinking, but it's just for show. He uses the grip he has on Deacon's hand to pull him closer, kissing him soundly.

 

“I like Deacon just fine,” Nate says, and that manages to get a smile out of the liar.

 

Deacon's teeth sink into the vulnerable flesh of Nate's neck, hard enough to break skin, maybe even to leave a scar. Nate smiles against the pain, keeping Deacon as close as he can.

 

“ _Time, which changes people, does not alter the image we have retained of them_ ,” Deacon quotes, and Nate leans in to lick his own blood from Deacon's mouth.

 

It's not okay, not yet and possibly not ever, but if Nate's learned anything in his over two hundred years of existence, it's that even when you _really_ love someone, sometimes your paths branch off. You just have to love with all your might while you have them, and hope you'll get to keep them on the long road ahead.


End file.
